by Sara Hanover
I filled my plate with a respectable number of dumplings, their sauce running in a thin brown and savory puddle as I did. “Congratulations! We should have champagne. Or Chablis. Or something.”
“Thank you!” She waved off the suggestion for wine though as she shook out a napkin and passed me one of those little packets of soy sauce. She paused. “Where’s Simon?”
“No idea. Not like him to miss a feast, though. I think the tell-tales upstairs alert him to freshly cooked food as well as problems.”
“That would explain a lot.”
We didn’t say much for the next few minutes, turning out house special fried rice, chow mein, chow fun with shrimp, and Mongolian beef onto our plates. Heavenly smells filled our kitchen to the rafters. We dug in, paying little attention to the third place setting which remained empty. Scout put his paw on my leg and got a few noodles for the polite effort. I don’t think he’d ever had Chinese takeout food before which explained his restraint in begging.
I sat back, getting full and pondering whether I wanted seconds on shrimp or beef or both, then decided to ask: “Going to take that binder down and show it to Dad?”
She paused, fork in midair, noodles dangling and dripping sauce into her rice. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
“He may not react, but he’s always been aware. I mean, you were starting your thesis before he left, right?”
“Not this one but yes.” My mother chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe I will.” She tilted her head. “Visit him often?”
“A couple times a week. I don’t know if he has any real sense of the passage of time, though. He can’t indicate that to me.” I hesitated a moment wondering if I should tell her my worry. “I think he’s fading more and more.”
“He’s running out of time?”
“Maybe. Maybe energy, maybe more.” I stopped short and just shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Going to ask the Society?”
“They don’t know we have a ghost, and the professor and I never discussed if we should tell them about Dad. Brandard was mostly concerned about the stone.”
“Mmmm.” She considered the dumpling carton and then speared another for herself, commenting, “Steptoe better hurry, or he’s going to miss out entirely.” Halfway through nibbling it, she said, “Where does Simon get his energy?”
“I’ve no idea. He’s not a ghost, though. He’s a lesser demon.”
“Still, he’s, what, centuries old? He’s got to have a life force of some kind.”
“You’re thinking he might have an idea how to recharge Dad?”
“It might be possible. And since you’re going tonight, they’re going to see or sense that stone anyway. Maybe it can charge your father up.”
I looked at the handsome piece of marble. It took power from me, although usually not a lot. It might be worth pondering her suggestion, but it would have to be done cautiously because I had no idea how to send him energy without draining myself dangerously. I might be able to find out from the Society if I asked questions carefully, without revealing too much. The last thing I wanted was for a team of ghostbusters galloping into the house and going after my father.
Anything I might have said was interrupted by Steptoe as he burst into the room carrying the chill of the late afternoon weather with him. His nose matched his apple-red cheeks as he chafed his hands. “Oy, it’s a brisk one out there.”
“That it is. Sit down and have supper.”
“Don’t mind if I do!” He grinned cheerfully and reached for cartons before he even properly finished settling. “I had some chores to undertake, but it looks like we’re going to get a good snowfall tonight. Late tonight, but sometime.” He doled out his share of food. “What a feast. Good news, I take it?”
“I finished my paper and have submitted it for final review.”
“Despite their puttering around? Good show, Mary.” He ate with relish. “And a good idea, this.”
“Steptoe,” I began. “Do you ever run out of energy?”
“I sleep like you lot. And eat. That what you mean?”
“Not exactly.”
He waved a near empty carton in one hand and his fork in the other. “Ah. You’re wondering if I have to return to the demonic essence sometimes. Indulge in blood sacrifices and brimstone and fire and such.” He winked at me, as if enjoying his teasing remark. “Well, the answer is no.”
“Seriously?”
“Very seriously. Do you think old Brandard would have left me standin’ if I’d been about any of that? ’Course not. The professor would ’ave blasted me away. Almost did anyway.” He brandished his fork.
“I wasn’t thinking brimstone.”
My mother raised an eyebrow at me.
“Well, I wasn’t. Sort of like a demon’s version of solar energy.”
“Ha.” Steptoe snorted. “It’s like this. The earth is gridded with ley lines, elemental energy, and I tap into those. If I went back to my origins, I’d be swallowed up and this whole bit of redemption and goodwill and friendship would be for nothing. And I don’t want that, ducks, not at all. Put too much time and effort into it, and I’d miss all of you far too much.” He dug the last of the fried rice out of the bottom corner of its container. “That answer your question?”
“For you, but—”
Mom cautioned me. “Don’t ask questions we really don’t want answers to, Tessa.”
“Superstitious?” I shot back at her.
“Sometimes a little caution brings big dividends.”
“Not on the hockey field.”
My mother shot me a glance. “Life is not a hockey field.”
“And curiosity and the cat is a good lesson,” Simon added before devouring the last dumpling.
My mother took my plate away. “Done?”
Done but not defeated. “Definitely,” I answered and pushed away from the table. “And I’ve got studying to do before tonight.”
He looked puzzled a second before brightening. “Ah, I’d forgotten. Goldie got some information for you.”
“Yup.” I waved and tromped upstairs, but I’d lost my faithful shadow who figured another noodle or two might come his way from those still sitting at the table. Seems he decided he liked Chinese food.
Upstairs, I sprawled across my bed and opened the journal again. Next thing I knew, Scout had curled up with me and I was fast asleep.
I don’t even remember dreaming. It didn’t feel like it. It had that clarity of real life except I didn’t know where I was. I walked through a thinning crowd of people I did not know or recognize or even care about, which made me feel awful. It seemed like a number of them were in distress, but I hadn’t time for them. I had another destination.
A shadow fell over me, and I turned to see who it might be.
And there he stood: Malender, with his intense expression and smoking hot attitude. His dark hair curled back from framing his face as his brilliant green eyes trained his attention on me, his tall form dressed as always like a troubadour. Of all the centuries he’d lived through, he must have loved that one best. He held a whip handle. The lash draped down to his ankles where shadows hugged him, coiled about his legs as if alive. I peered closer. Razor-sharp thorns studded the lash, and as I looked, flames erupted up and down the length. But they didn’t entrap him. He raised his hand and snapped the whip into the air, thorns flashing and fire erupting. Holy moly.
“Maybe,” he said to me, “it would have been better if you hadn’t freed me from my prison.” The whip relaxed back to coil about him, almost seductively.
Maybe he was right.
Sometime around then came the realization that those people I had passed by, those throngs of strangers, had all had their backs flayed open in ragged, crimson stripes. I could hear their moans faintly, even though they had staggered out of my reach, out of his reach. Had he done t
hat to them? I couldn’t believe so because of the aura of wrongness that hung in the Butchery where I’d once seen similar torture. I’d never sensed that about this being, this man that I knew. Danger . . . yes, but not wanton evil. I wanted to trust him but couldn’t quite. I didn’t know what he really was, even. Perhaps one of the old gods who’d survived the turns of the world.
I stared at Malender. The most beautiful being I’d ever seen.
And possibly the most wicked.
I jerked awake. My heart beat wildly and my throat had gone dry. It took me a few breaths to become truly aware of myself in my bed and bedroom. What meaning had that dream had? Or was it even a dream? Malender had power, a terrible power. Most of my magical friends feared him; I’d always wondered why. That whip was new. I’d never seen him carrying it before, but I had no doubt that he knew how to use it.
I grabbed my laptop to try and identify what I had just seen. It took a bit of poking about, but not long. Everything, it seems, is on the Internet . . . even medieval scourges because that is what it was. A whip to end all whips in pain and punishment, for the purpose of justice and cleansing. Biblical even.
I wouldn’t have believed I could dream up such a thing, so it helped a little to just sit and stare at it. Well, minus the flames. My imagination must have added that little detail.
Go me.
I couldn’t have imagined seeing Malender with one, though, tormented magical being that he was. I had never thought of him as the rising evil that everyone had feared returning to life, to kick ass and take names. Powerful: yes, evil: no.
The dream gave me second thoughts.
He knew how to handle that whip.
For the briefest of moments, I wondered if it could have been Malender standing at the lamppost, watching us from the dead of night. It left me chilled.
I got up and headed to the shower as if that might somehow wash the dream and thoughts out of my head. Then I had to find out how to fritter away the rest of the day.
CHAPTER NINE
INVITED AND UNINVITED
I DECIDED TO dress down for the Societas Obscura: jeans, black-and-silver shirt, black jean jacket, running shoes. I considered wearing my leg guards from field hockey but decided that might be a little distrustful and left my favorite hockey stick behind as well. The maelstrom stone goes everywhere with me, so that was a nonissue.
I stood at my windowsill where my dwarven bracers had been gathering daylight and storing it in the golden gems studding them. I finally put them on, but under my blousy shirt sleeves. They gave a little hint I wore something about my wrists but weren’t entirely revealing what as I grabbed my jacket and trekked downstairs. Scout trotted down beside me, missing the last step, and should have sprawled at the bottom but twisted in midair and managed to land on all fours. He shook his head vigorously as I snorted at him.
“Grace.”
He gave me a look before leaving my side and heading into the kitchen without me.
My mother and Steptoe sat at the table, having an evening snack, sipping hot tea and enjoying fresh muffins. I hadn’t smelled them baking which told me how preoccupied I’d been with armoring myself for the meeting. No wonder Scout had missed a step in his hurry to get to the smells. It’s a wonder he hadn’t busted through my bedroom door to get downstairs.
“Smells good.”
“Cherry wonders,” Steptoe managed before reaching for another muffin. My mother shot him a look, a warning I recognized but didn’t think he would. It was the “you better slow down and leave some food for the others” stare.
I sat down and helped myself. Still warm. I watched as melted butter trickled through his fingers as he picked it apart delicately and gobbled each fourth down. I ate slowly, savoring the tart/sweet cherry chunks. “Aunt April’s cherries?”
“Of course. No one puts up fruit the way she does.”
My great-aunt had the devil’s own luck gambling, addicted to it but fighting her obsession successfully, yet I think her better talent was in preserving. Maybe that was because Potion Polly hailed not too far back in her line. Whatever it was, Aunt April had the talent to can and bake with the best, and Southern belles had a reputation for those abilities. I quickly snatched up a second muffin before Simon could clear the plate, and my mother shadowed the movement. That left a solitary pastry on the plate which he eyed sadly before looking up at my mom.
“Go ahead.”
His hand moved so quickly I barely saw it, reminding me that despite his veneer, he was not and never would be human. I found myself shrinking back just a little. My mother’s foot jabbed my ankle lightly, jolting me, and I managed a grin before slipping a corner down to Scout who’d decided he owed allegiance to me after all.
Steptoe arched an eyebrow at me. “Date night?”
“Society.”
He winced. “I can ’ear the professor now.”
“Me, too, but it wasn’t one of those invites you can refuse. Besides, I need more teaching than you can give me.”
“Ow. You wound me.” He placed a hand on his suit jacket over where his heart should be, leaving a tiny buttery fingerprint. It disappeared even as I noted it in fascination. “Be that as it may, do you need an escort?”
“You weren’t invited.”
“Nonetheless.” And he shrugged in his magical jacket which could render him invisible once removed and used as a cloak. He ignored the expression on my mother’s face as her lips tightened.
I traded a look with her. Did she want me to take along help or feel it might be courting more trouble? Not that I knew I was in trouble; it just seemed a foregone conclusion. She said nothing. “Mom?”
After a long pause, she shook her head. “That’s not a decision I can make for you.”
I shrugged. “Thanks for the offer, Simon, but no.”
“Sure, ducks?”
“Pretty sure. Scout is staying home. It’ll just be me, the stone, and my bracers.” I smiled at him as I finished the last of my treat.
He twisted slightly in his chair, and I’m fairly certain Mom couldn’t see the wink he gave me. “As you wish.”
I stood up quickly, gathering teacups and saucers to load in the dishwasher before the expression on my face gave me away. I had three of his signature flash-bangs in my pocket so I probably wouldn’t need his backup, but it might be kind of nice to have. All said, it was a heck of a thing to need assistance if I was going to be visiting friends. Still the idea appealed to me. If the professor were here, he’d probably insist on going with me. I missed the idea of Carter being available, no matter what. The thought made me sigh.
My mom turned around at the sink. “What is it?”
“Just thinking about Brian and the professor.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “I know.”
I made a little face. “He’d probably just make trouble, anyway.”
“Too right,” Steptoe said. “He hated the Society.”
“I never really understood why.”
He dusted himself off after standing and pushing his chair back under the table. “That history is not one I’ll be telling. He’d have my ears as well as my tail again if I did.” He gave a half-bow. “I’ve got some things to take care of, and it’ll be a late evening for me, Mary. Don’t be alarmed when I come in.”
“Oh, I won’t. I have the intrepid Scout here protecting me.”
The dog in question let out a woof. Steptoe disappeared out the back door. I checked my phone for the time.
“I’d better head out to the front porch. They said eight o’clock but might be early.”
“I have a feeling everyone in that bunch is precise to the second.”
“I know.” I slipped my phone back in my pocket. “It figures.”
Mom started the dishwasher cycle. “Anything on Dad yet?”
“Not yet, but ther
e’s a lot of history in that journal. I should probably skip ahead, but I’m afraid of missing a detail or two.” I leaned a shoulder against the archway to the living room and foyer. “You know there’s scattered magic all through Dad’s line?”
“There’s a weird kind of logic to that, knowing what we know now.”
“Do you think he magicked you?”
“Into loving him?” My mother gave a slight laugh. “Oh, you should have seen him in college. He was a star on the golf team, with his talent and his slight southern drawl. Girls couldn’t keep away from him. We Yankees find southern gentlemen irresistible. I saw something in him the others didn’t, though, and it took him a while to realize that I wasn’t interested in dazzle but substance.”
“But he chose you.”
“Eventually.” She dried her hands on a dish towel and corrected me. “We chose each other.”
“What happened to the pro golfing?”
“He tore a rotator cuff. Never was quite right after that even with surgery, and he gave it up, long before we were married. It shook him more than he wanted to admit. Most of the Andrews families were hard workers, calluses on their hands, uniform shirts on their backs, and dust in their eyes. He didn’t want to work that hard, tired to the bone all the time, and thought he had a different life planned. That’s why he jumped at the golf scholarship, even though it was so far from here, from home. It was the best offer he had—and mind you, he had several golfing offers, but he took the most profitable one. Then he lost it all. He settled for an office job after college, in insurance, but you and I know, now, that he’d become addicted to dazzle. He wasn’t sure if I’d follow him back to Virginia. He liked to joke that it was the coast and pine trees that made up my mind.”
That was the most she’d ever said about the private things between her and my father. Things parents don’t usually discuss with their children—the uncertainty, the bumps in the road. Then, as she’d noted, we’d weathered a lot of those bumps together in these last few years. I put my hand out, took her in, and hugged her.
“Things are better now.”
